


The Stiles Stilinski Files

by mssstilinski



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Stiles, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergence IN the epilogue of BOO, Canon Divergence after Season 5 and Blood of OIympus, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dead Leo Valdez, Demigod Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Pack, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Post-Season 5, Post-The Blood of Olympus, Son of Apollo, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-01-15 11:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssstilinski/pseuds/mssstilinski
Summary: Stiles hates being a demigod.It’s exhausting and dangerous and a constant problem in his life - like a job he can’t quit and one where getting fired means taking an eternal cruise on the River Styx.So, not good. But Stiles deals with it in the most Stiles way possible, all bumbling and uncoordinated and dramatic.(Not that Stiles is in any way dramatic.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> I’m a sucker for Demigod AU’s and also Stiles Stilinski, so I combined the two and now there’s this.
> 
> Hope you love it as much as I do!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles spends a school day avoiding badly timed Iris Messages and utterly and completely freaking out on the inside.

 

Stiles hates being a demigod.

 

It’s exhausting and dangerous and a constant problem in his life - like a job he can’t quit and one where getting fired means taking an eternal cruise on the River Styx. 

 

So, not good. But Stiles deals with it in the most Stiles way possible, all bumbling and uncoordinated and dramatic. 

 

(Not that Stiles is in any way dramatic.)

 

He pushes himself off his locker, hands gripping the front of Scott’s shirt. “I’m telling you, we need to do something.” 

 

“Do we?” Scott grins down at Stiles’ hands, then back up at Stiles. “All he did was retire.”

 

“People don’t retire this far into the school year. It’s March!” 

 

Scott purses his lips in distaste - which is not the reaction Stiles wants - and shrugs. Stiles opens his mouth to argue, to insist that something should be done, but his mouth clamps shut at the sight of a small shimmer in the air. 

 

It ripples behind Scott’s ear, and before Iris’ ‘insert drachma to collect call’ message can sound through the hall, Stiles reaches out and swats the message away. Scott glances back in confusion, but at the sight of an empty hallway, he turns back to Stiles. A questioning look passes over his face and Stiles grins in response, shrugging the most nonchalant shrug he can muster and says, “There was a bird.”

 

Scott stares at him in silence, before nodding, unbothered because this is usual for Stiles (and for Beacon Hills), and shoves his book into his locker. Stiles follows suit and slings his arm over Scott’s shoulder, chalking the call up to nothing more than a mix-up. 

 

He thinks of his friends back at camp, imagines them standing around the little fountain in the Apollo cabin. He imagines the sheepish smiles that’ll grow when the time dawns on them. Stiles doesn’t panic, because there’s no reason too. 

 

It’s just a mix-up. 

 

#

 

Stiles is standing on the lacrosse field, left arm draped around Liam’s shoulders, giving said werewolf tips on how to make sure the ball goes into the net and being ignored by said werewolf, when another calls comes through. 

 

The air shimmers to Stiles’ right, faint colors of the rainbow sneaking into his peripheral. He rips his arm off of Liam and spins, swinging his arm through the air, a definite  _ whoosh _ striking his ears as the message is swept away. Liam, unfocused and gazing off into the distance, snaps into motion, squinting at Stiles. “What was that?”

 

Stiles shrugs. “What was what? I didn’t see a thing. Didn’t hear a thing.” He pauses, gives Liam a scrutinizing once-over, and musters up the most patronizing tone he can, “Did you see something?”

 

“There was something there!” Liam is starring in the direction the message had started to form. 

 

Stiles swallows nervously and shakes his head. “No, there wasn’t.” 

 

Liam opens and closes his mouth disbelievingly a few times, before starting to walk off. Stiles immediately ropes him back in, slinging his arm back around his shoulder, content that Liam wouldn’t worry about what he saw. 

 

Stiles nods to himself and tries to convince himself a second call didn’t mean trouble. He was more than willing to bet one of his little siblings was calling and didn’t want to wait until the day was over to talk to him; Apollo kids were excitable and persistent and impatient and Stiles wouldn’t be surprised. Yeah, that had to be it. 

 

He immediately goes back to talking about lacrosse. 

 

#

 

Stiles is at lunch the third time his friends back at home call, sandwiched in-between Lydia and Mason. 

 

“It was built six month ago! So, why is it already abandoned?” Stiles asks, ending his small speech on reasons why they should be most definitely be investigating the abandoned warehouse downtown and doing his best to get Scott to consent to his little adventure. Scott, in turn, smiles. “Because the engineering is bad. We’ve had this conversation, man.” 

 

“They need us!” He grins, slapping the table to excite his pack. Lydia rolls her eyes at him and across the table, Malia scoffs. Both Liam and Mason ignore him, heads bent together over the table, quizzing each other of their latest calculus homework. Scott raises his eyebrow in amusement, but Stiles knows he’s not motived in the slightest, and gives Stiles a soft shake of his head. 

 

“Beacon Hills doesn’t need us.” 

 

“At least not right now.”

Stiles stands, about to embark on another speech about saving the town and all it’s people, only to be pulled back down by Lydia. “Don’t encourage him, Malia.” 

 

He glances at her, opening his mouth to argue, when he sees the iris message - it sparkles under the fluorescent cafeteria light, forming right behind Malia’s shoulder, and Stiles coughs at the sight of it. His brows furrow, a mixture of confusion and worry and determination flashing across his face. His fingers tighten around the closest object in his reach and he sends a chocolate milk carton sailing across the room. It zooms passed Malia’s ear at inhuman speed and goes straight through the message, busting open as it hits the floor. 

 

The cafeteria goes silent, with everyone’s head snapping up to stare at him, confusion plastered on their faces. 

 

He glances around the table, letting a natural grin spread across his face, and even manages to wave at the onlooking students, like his stomach hadn’t dropped a moment before. “What?” 

 

“You just threw a carton of milk.” Mason deadpans, his eyes wide and curious. Stiles turns to him, squinting in disbelief, and sputters out, “I saw a bug.” 

 

“And you thought throwing your milk would do the trick?”

 

Stiles gives Liam an incredulous look at the comment and plays the situation out as dramatically as he possibly can. Like his father would have. (But Stiles  _ was not _ dramatic.) He shrugs, turning his exotic expression into an innocent grin. “I threw the first thing I grabbed! I didn’t expect it to be a milk carton.” 

 

One-by-one they nod at him, like this is a normal occurrence (It is, though. Sometimes, Stiles is just... _ weird. _ ) and go back to talking over each other and picking at each other’s food. He doesn’t speak, not until Lydia’s small hand squeezes his bicep, drawing him back to reality. He smiles at her and leaps back into the conversation like nothing happened.

 

But his heart pounds in his chest; three calls  _ definitely _ meant trouble. 

 

#

 

The fourth call Stiles gets sends a flood of emotions running through him, but he doesn’t hesitate to cut it short. Instead of waiting for the image to fully form in the middle of the classroom, he does the one and only think he can think of, and dives face first into the message. It vanishes. 

 

Stiles lands on the floor with an audible  _ thump.  _

 

The room erupts in laughter and Stiles groans, his body aching and his mind racing. This was the fourth call.  _ The fourth.  _ There has to be something wrong. He glances up, first at his teacher, with her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, and then up at Lydia, who is leaning over the front of her desk, failing miserably at hiding the grin spread across her face. 

 

No one noticed the message.  _ Mission accomplished! _

 

Stiles smiles back at Lydia, the action unnoticeably forced, and stands in one swift motion. He marches over to his seat beside her and sits confidently (except he was freaking out inside, totally freaking out), nodding apologetically to his teacher; instead of yelling and demanding he finish his presentation, she just huffs in annoyance and called up the next person. 

 

_ Thank the gods for that.  _

 

Stiles doesn’t think he could do it, get back up there and finish presenting like breathing wasn’t painful and his heart wasn’t beating rapidly against his chest. He shuts his eyes and inhales slowly, the next presenter’s voice becomes lull and calming in the background. 

 

As the girl speaks, Lydia leans over and whispers, “What a terrible presentation, Stiles.”

 

“I thought it was witty and original.” He whispers in return, letting out the breath he was holding. His voice is uneven, heart still pounding in his chest, and he hopes Lydia doesn’t notice. 

 

She studies him for a moment, a sharp emerald green digging into his skin, and he forces himself to smile at her, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if she notices. Slowly, she grins, not noticing he’s about to unravel in-front of her eyes, about to fall apart, and he sighs. It’s better, Stiles knows, the less she notices. 

 

“Nothing about you is witty or original.” 

 

“Touche, my lady.” The remark slides off Stiles’ tongue smooth as honey. He turns around toward Scott, ignoring the glare his teacher gives him, and forces another breath in, then out. Breathe, he tells himself, just breathe. Scott has amusement playing in his eyes and Stiles can’t help but ask, “And you? Was that not the best presentation your beastly ears have ever heard?” 

 

Scott huffs, smirking. “Would’ve been better if you finished it.” 

 

“See, Lyds? It was innovative. Scott loved it.” 

 

The teacher shoots him another glare and Stiles involuntarily grimaces, nodding politely back at her - she ignores him. 

 

Malia leans forward, “And the jumping?” 

 

At the question, his heart-rate seems to quicken; his mind back-tracks and he knows,  _ Stiles knows,  _ that something is wrong because this is his family, calling him for the fourth time. Something had to be wrong - they would never call him four times in a day unless something was wrong, unless they  _ needed _ him. The last time they’d called this many times, Percy had been missing. Four times warranted something a little more serious than just a quick hello, more than a  _ hey, we miss you, just wanted to let you know your dad lost him immortality this morning. Cheers, Stilinski.  _ Stiles swallows the lump in his throat, forces down the sick feeling welling up in his stomach, turns to Malia, and shrugs. “Dramatic flair?” 

 

(Stiles is only dramatic when he needs to be.)

 

Malia doesn’t answer him. Instead, her head cocks to the side curiously and Stiles panics. He forces himself to focus on controlling his heart-rate, like Luke Castellan had taught him to all those summers ago, in case she’s taken to listening it, but it seems to have the opposite effect - no amount of focus could fix this. 

 

“Stiles, what’s wrong with you?” 

 

He slides back around, ignoring her question, and pretends to listen to the presentation. But he doesn't have to look at them to know they’ve noticed. He can feel all three of his friends staring, drilling into the back of his head, almost begging him to speak. 

 

He doesn’t. 

 

He glances toward the clock, counts the seconds, and tells himself to breathe. To calm down. To do the smart thing and not,   _ to never,  _ jump to conclusions. It could be nothing. He could be paranoid and overreacting and it could all be fine. There wasn’t a rule book stating that four iris messages meant life or death. 

 

_ But maybe it did.  _

 

“Stiles?” Lydia’s voice is gentle, but it snaps Stiles out of his trance just fine - she was the best at that, bringing him back to the here and now. He still doesn’t look at her, at any of them, just stares at his trembling hands. “Stiles.” 

 

He thinks about answering, but decides against it, mostly because he’s not sure his voice would work if he tried. Scott reaches out, resting his hand warmly on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezing. It offers some comfort, but Stiles finds himself pulling away from it.

 

Scott whispers his name. It sounds raw and almost hurt and Stiles’ throat constricts at the thought of hurting Scott. Sweat drips from his forehead and his eyes burn and he can’t focus, he can’t breathe, he can’t think.

 

He needs to leave. 

 

He balls his hands to stop the shaking and breathes three quick breaths. In and out, in and out, in and out. 

 

Someone else whispers his name. Lydia, he thinks. But he needs to get out, he needs to breathe, and he  _ can’t.  _

 

Stiles shoves his belonging into his bag and leaves. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles calls Percy and feels like he can breathe for the first time today.

Stiles knows he doesn’t have long until his pack shows up - Scott had rushed out after him, calling his name, but Stiles had just kept walking and to hell with the consequences. 

 

(But the drive home makes him a bit guilty - he can’t stop thinking about the look Scott had given him.)(Of course, not guilty enough to not lock the doors in case they show up earlier than planned.)

 

He runs up his stairs, goes straight to his drawers when opens the door to his room, and rummages through them for a drachma, leaving his floor littered with clothes.

 

When he finds one, he breathes a sigh of relief. He thinks of Camp Half-Blood, of all his friends and of his family, and he hopes and he  _ prays  _ to his dad, to Percy’s dad, to whatever god or goddess that’s listening in that everything fine.  _ Let it all be alright. Please.  _ Stiles moves to the hall across the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. 

 

He catches his reflection in the mirror and stares, drinking in just how terrible he looks - pale and ashen and forehead dripping with sweat - and swallows the lump in his throat. He breathes, in and out, in and out, in and out, before setting to work on creating a makeshift rainbow. 

 

When the image shimmers, he tosses in the drachma. The incantation falls from his lips without thought. “Show me...Percy Jackson.” 

 

“Stiles, thank the gods.” Stiles relaxes for the smallest of moments, a soft sigh falling from his mouth, but the tension returns to his shoulders not a second after it vanishes when he catches sight of Percy’s face, but Percy doesn’t notice the way he freezes. “You kept ignoring my calls and I was getting worried, Annabeth too, not that she’ll ever admit she’s worried about you.”

 

“What happened to you? You look like shit, Jackson.” Stiles takes in every inch of Percy’s face, from his pale, tired eyes and tight lips to his bruised jaw and scarred nose. He tries to keep his voice light, but it’s hard. Percy looks terrible and Stiles thinks he hadn’t seen Percy look this bad since the end of the Second Giant War, since Tartarus. 

 

“You’re one to talk.” 

 

Stiles doesn’t speak, just watches as Percy’s face grows cold and hard and full of silent rage. It makes Stiles want to shrink into himself. (The sole son of Poseidon doesn’t scare him, and he never had, but something about the look on his face now is unnerving.) He shuffles and leans forward on the sink, waiting. 

 

“Katie got a little heated during training.” Percy continues, rubbing the bruise almost habitually, like it’s just one in a long list of bruised jaws, and then scoffs. He taps his nose and says, “This I got from Clarisse. She swears she meant to do it, but she’s scared and distracted and I know she didn’t. If she doesn’t get it together soon, I’m going to scream. I mean, who knew I’d ever miss her trying to shove my head in the toilet.” 

 

Stiles laughs, but it’s almost forced. He notices the hesitance in Percy’s voice, skirting around the inevitable; the reason he called. And Stiles, despite the hesitance, despite the alarming look on Percy’s face, despite his fears, wants to know. “Clarisse scared? I think that’s a sight I might like to see.” 

  
“Trust me, it’s not.” That’s all Stiles gets in response. He waits for something more, but it doesn’t come. In the image, Percy stares at him, but Stiles knows he’s not seeing him, not really. Then, voice full of rage, he chokes out, “Rachel gave the next great prophecy this morning, right there in front of the whole camp. Chiron fears it’s already been set in motion. Apollo does too.” 

 

Stiles’ blood goes cold. His heart races inside his chest and the air in his lungs seems to vanish and he forces himself to blink back the tears welling up in his eyes. No, no, no,  _ this shouldn’t be happening.  _ He exhales, because he can’t just stop breathing now. 

 

His knows his shock is notable because Percy waits, crosses his arms and turns away, letting Stiles reel in all his emotions, and he has  _ so many of them.  _ In a matter of seconds, he goes from shocked to downhearted and heartbroken to downright furious with the world. He settles on bitter and caustic and tries to come to terms with the prospect of fighting another war.

 

Stiles does not want to fight another war.

 

He’s fed up with watching his friends die, of watching his brothers and sisters die. He’s lost too many people. He’d lost Beckendorf and Silena and Luke. He’d lost Luke twice, not that he’d ever admit watching Luke die had hurt him more than expected. He’s lost Michael and he’d lost Lee and he’d lost Leo. He’d lost Allison. 

 

He does not want to lose anyone else. 

 

“Tell it to me.” His voice is low, but he knows Percy hears him. 

 

He doesn’t respond immediately, just lets the silence stretch, and Stiles tries not to be grateful for it - he breathes, methodically almost, and does his best to calm his racing heart, to focus on the problem at hand. Sure, there’s another great prophecy and Chiron thinks it’s playing out right now, but even then, there’s not a certainty. There’s no guarantee that it’ll happen in this lifetime. It could happen two hundred years from now, when Stiles and everyone he loves is already dead. It could be someone else’s problem. 

 

He thinks, hopes, that two great prophecies has to be where the fates draw the line. 

 

“Rachel will tell it to you when you get home.” Stiles glances up at Percy as he says this, and is surprised to see him smiling. He can’t help but smile back. “You should be here. With us.” 

 

Stiles pictures the sun beaming down on the lake, the water glistening. He pictures the strawberry fields and it’s occupying satyrs, can almost hear the soft, sweet music that accompanies them. He pictures the mess hall, full to the brim with demigods of all ages and he swears,  _ swears,  _ he can smell the smoke surrounding him as he tosses food in. He pictures his home so clearly it hurts him. 

 

But he says, “I’m in school.” 

 

“You’re like fourth in your class. I think you can afford to miss a few classes.”

 

“My dad will kill me if I skip town and don’t tell him.” Stiles doesn’t know why he’s being so adamant about it; he wants to go and he knows he has to because they need him.  _ They need him.  _

 

“So, tell him. He’ll understand.” He sounds so earnest, so intense, that Stiles can’t do anything but bob his head in confirmation. 

 

“He won’t be happy about it.” 

 

Percy laughs, “Of course he won’t. But we need you.” He chews his lip and glances up, looks at Stiles with so much  _ fierceness _ , so much  _ depth _ . “Pollux drove Clarisse insane last week. He didn’t mean too, but they were sparring and she pinned him down and it just happened. She looked him the eyes and she went insane. She’s fine now, albeit a bit shaken, but I have never - and I mean,  _ never  _ \- seen Clarisse so terrified. No one will go near Pollux. Then, Connor Stoll started charmspeaking. You know, he’s always been persuasive, but now, he’s as good as Piper. No one knows how it happened, because it’s not something he should be able to do. Annabeth figures it has to do with Hermes being the patron god of tricksters, but no child of Hermes has ever been able to do it before.”

 

“Could be, considering he’s known for his ability to outwit the rest most gods.” 

 

“Then there’s Kayla.” 

 

Stiles stiffens at the mention of his sister, heart stopping in his chest. “What happened? Is she okay? Can I talk to her?” 

 

“She’s fine,” Percy rushes out, hands out in a ‘don’t worry’ gesture. Stiles nods, swallowing the lump in his throat, and motions for Percy to continue. “But she nearly killed Butch yesterday afternoon, arguing about a pegasus or something. One second they were yelling and the next, he was hunched over, vomiting up blood and burning up from the inside. Will fixed him up, but it was the worst thing I’ve ever seen.” 

 

“But that’s impossible.” Stiles states, matter of fact and sure. “It’s unheard of - there isn’t a single demigod in history who has inherited Dad’s power to infect illness. It doesn’t happen.” He sighs, hands rubbing over his face, “I don’t know, maybe we’re evo-” 

 

He stops short, the sound of a slowing car catching his attention. He signals Percy and crosses the hall to his room, and peering out the window facing his driveway. He watches as Lydia’s car pulls in beside his jeep, deciding right away that locking the door had been a good idea. 

 

He heads back to the bathroom, frowning. “Do you have any ideas about why?” 

 

Percy doesn’t answer. Instead he turns away, swallowing painfully. Stiles stares at the floating image, studying his friends face curiously. Percy’s frowning, green eyes riddled with worry and confusion and rage. It’s not the first time Stiles has seen Percy bruised and tired, but he can’t recall a time he’d seen his friend so helpless, so unsure. Finally, he looks up and meets Stiles’ gaze, “No, I don’t.” 

 

“And Annie?” 

 

“She doesn’t have a clue. Her and Malcolm have been working non-stop, seeing if there are any mentions of something like this in anything they can get their hands on. No such luck. But I’m sure she’ll figure it out.” He answers quicker this time, a real smile playing on his lips at the mention of Annabeth.

 

Stiles grins back at him. “She’ll get it eventually. I mean, she’s  _ Annabeth.  _ Greatest demigod of this generation.” 

 

“Yeah, that’s my girl.” 

 

“Don’t tell her I said that, Jackson. Or you’re dead.” Percy lets out a soft laugh in response and shrugs in a way that says ‘I make no promises.’

 

(Which means that Stiles will never,  _ ever _ , hear the end of it.)

 

It’s silent after that, and Stiles isn’t bothered because there’s a bittersweet happiness floating around in his chest, despite the circumstances. He can hear his pack downstairs, banging on the door and calling his name, and he knows Percy can hear it too, but neither of them say anything about it. 

 

In the end, it’s Percy who breaks the silence, voice cracking. 

 

“We need you to come home, Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, so far, Stiles and Percy are my favorite two to write and I love writing their interactions and hope to give you many, many more! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles says goodbye, to both the pack and his dad, and only the latter ends well.

“Stiles, we know you’re behind the door.” 

 

Stiles has his ear pressed against the door, listening to his friends argue on the other side, for almost seven seconds before they know he’s there. One of them jiggles the doorknob, still attempting to get in, and the Stiles sighs in exasperation. 

 

He’d been hoping to make it out the door before Scott, Lydia, and Malia showed up. On his way home, he’d decided that his sudden disappearance would be easier to explain over the phone, where none of them could physically force the truth out of him. Or force an explanation out of him, period. (And his first mistake was hoping because hoping does absolutely nothing when you’re a demigod. If you don’t want it to happen, it happens, and it  _ always  _ happens way worse than you expect it to.)

 

His friends had rolled up in Lydia’s car while he was upstairs, pulling in - thank the gods - to the left of his jeep, leaving him with plenty of room to back out. He can make it out of the driveway. He just needs to get out of the house first.

 

Here’s to hoping he can. 

 

He closes his eyes and bangs his head against the door a few times, causing Scott to stop messing with the doorknob, before bringing it to rest there. He focuses on breathing, then leans back, throwing the door wide open. He forces a shit-eating grin on his face and pushes through, leaving them standing there, shocked by the fact that he even opened the door.

 

Lydia is the first to react.

 

She turns and follows him until he stops and faces her, his back to his jeep. The backpack hanging over his shoulder grows heavier as she stares at it, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Her jaw clenches. “Are you going somewhere?” 

 

He starts to tell her that he’s fine, that his breakdown in class was nothing to worry about, because  _ of course they’re worried _ , but then her words register and his voice catches in his throat. He shifts uncomfortably, thrown off by the lack of concern in her voice, no matter how unintentional. Stiles had known they would show up, worried out of their minds at his behavior, but he hadn’t thought he’d still be here, and at the question his mind blanks because he  _ cannot  _ tell them the truth. 

 

He thinks he could walk past them, ignore their pleas, and leave. And maybe they would trust him enough to just let him. It’s not like it hadn’t happened before. How many of their friends had mysteriously disappeared one day? The only difference between them and Stiles is that he’ll be coming back. 

 

Or he hopes he would be, at least. 

“Stiles, hello.” Malia’s tone is demanding, pushing him for an answer, arms crossed in defiance. 

 

In response, Stiles forces that easy grin back on his face, prepared to tell some bullshit lie about - about what? What could he say? What would warrant him leaving so unexpectedly? 

 

His grip on his backpack tightens and he starts up again, brainstorming something believable, when he finally catches sight of Scott standing at Lydia’s shoulder, face clouded over with concern and panic and something that causes Stiles to pause once more. He can’t find it in himself to speak, to talk his way out of this, not this time. He can’t find it in himself to lie. 

 

(Damn Apollo and his truthfulness for that.)

 

He settles on a half-truth. “I have somewhere important to be.” 

 

“So, where to?” Scott steps forward and gives Stiles the kindest smile. “We’ll go with you.” 

 

“You can’t.” 

 

Lydia steps forward and reaches out for his hand, but Stiles takes a step back, until he’s pressed against the front of his jeep. Hurt flashes across her face and Stiles tries to ignore the pain that wells up in his chest. The  _ last _ thing he wants to do is hurt them. 

 

But Stiles knows, better than anyone, that once you get involved with gods and monsters and wars, there’s no getting out. 

 

“And why the hell not?” Came Malia’s voice, still sharp and demanding.

 

Stiles sighs, “Because it’s too dangerous.” He knows that’s not enough for them, but he doesn’t want them getting more involved than they have to be. 

 

Beacon Hills was enough to protect - they don’t need to worry about the rest of the world too. 

 

Scott’s dark eyes narrows in confusion and Stiles knows he doesn’t understand the concept of dangerous. How could he? He’s a True Alpha, the stuff of legend. Scott’s stood face to face with danger more times that he would care to admit. But this is different; Stiles doesn’t know what the prophecy is or if it’s guaranteed to happen, but it’s still too big, too out of control. Scott says, soft and sure, “We’re always in danger, and somehow we always survive. We survive together. C’mon man, tell us what’s wrong.”

 

“Do we? What about Allison? Or Aiden? Have any of you seen Erica or Boyd lately? They didn’t make it, none of them lived. It’s bullshit, Scott. Bullshit.” It flows out before Stiles can stop himself. “I’m telling you it’s too dangerous and it’s bigger than you and far,  _ far, _ worse, than anything you’ve ever had to deal with. You can’t come.” His voice sounds harsh and cruel, almost foreign to his ears, but it gives the effect he wants - Scott steps back, shock clouding his face. 

 

Malia stares at him, lips pursed. “Now’s not the time to be a hero, Stiles.” 

 

“I’m not being a hero, Lia.”

 

“Then what do you call rushing off to nowhere for no reason?” 

 

Stiles growls, “You think I’d leave for no reason? That I’d just skip town to piss you off? Because that’s not top priority right now.” 

 

As if sensing something about to explode between him and Malia, Lydia rushes forward, catching Stiles’ free hand in her own, and holds him in place. His gaze is still locked on Malia, refusing to back down, until Lydia pulls on his sleeve. He turns to her and,  _ oh gods,  _ she inches from his face, with wide and pleading eyes, and Stiles nearly stops breathing. He blinks, memories of Lydia looking up at him with those very same eyes running through his head, suffocating him. He wants to run. He doesn’t and then finally,  _ finally,  _ Lydia speaks. “You’re coming back, right? Whatever stupid and dangerous thing you’ve gotten into, you can handle it, and you’ll come back, won’t you? You’ll come home?”

 

Stiles swallows and he can’t look her in the eyes, he just can’t. What was he supposed to say? How could he say anything at all and not have them put up a fight? Was he just supposed to drop all pretenses, tell them  _ I’m on my way to New York, to fight a war, my third war, and I might not make it back, you might never see me again? And it’s all because my dad’s this all-powerful god or whatever?  _ Yeah, he thinks, because that would go over real smooth.

 

“If you’re leaving, Stiles, I need you to promise me that.” She tries again, voice breaking. 

 

“I can’t promise that.” 

 

As he says that, Malia turns on her heels. She gives him one last look, full of doubt and fear and rage, and slams the door as she climbs back into Lydia’s passenger-seat.

 

Scott pulls his attention away from Malia quick enough, jaw clenched, hands balled, and Stiles can feel the disappointment radiating off of him. It makes his skin crawl and his stomach drop and he can’t hold Scott’s gaze, especially when he says, “So, that’s it? It’s too dangerous for us, three  _ supernatural  _ creatures, but not for you?”

 

A disbelieving scoff escapes his lips and Stiles has to blink back tears. “I’m a lot more capable than you think I am, Scott.” 

 

Scott flinches. Stiles fights back down the guilt that threatens to overwhelm him and he wonders why the world can’t go to shit at a more convenient time, after graduation, when he could leave and give the same church camp excuse. He shakes his head and speaks, voice louder than before. “I can’t promise I’ll be back - but believe me when I tell you I will do whatever it takes to get back to you.” His gaze finds Lydia and he offers up a soft smile, which she returns despite the tears. “I’m sorry, but this is something I need to do alone and I’d feel better if you were here, safe, protected. And I’m sorry, because you deserve more than what I’m giving you, but it’s all you need to know.”

 

Stiles detangles his hand from Lydia’s. He gives Scott a small nod and steps around to the door of his jeep. Neither of them make a move to stop him. 

 

“I’ll be back before you know it.” He climbs in and drives off. And, as he stares at them in his rear-view mirror, he forces all his guilt back down, shoves the thought that leaving is a mistake out of his mind. 

 

Because this isn’t a mistake; Stiles has a family to protect. He has people he can’t lose. 

 

#

 

Stiles pulls into the Sheriff’s station, mind racing a mile a minute.  _ Just have to say goodbye.  _ He has to find his dad, he has to explain, and then he’s leaving. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if his dad tries to stop him. 

 

Not after what happened with the pack. 

 

He starts to sweat. His wipes his clammy hands against his pants leg, forcing himself to smile at Jordan Parrish, who’s walking toward him, grinning wide and proud.

 

As the deputy approaches, Stiles’ stomach churns; Parrish makes him uneasy, nervous. And it’s not personal. Parrish’s whole existence just confuses Stiles. It doesn’t matter how long he tries to wrap his head around it and it doesn’t matter how long he spends asking Hades if there are other  _ types,  _ Stiles still has trouble believing that Parrish is an actual hellhound. He’s met plenty of hellhounds, and  _ by the gods _ , he’s killed enough of them to know that they aren’t walking, talking 6-foot police officers. 

 

(And then, his best friend has a pet hellhound. Not that Mrs. O’Leary and Parrish are in the same playing field.)

 

He pushes his thoughts asides and forces himself to speak. “Deputy, my dad around?” 

 

“Yeah, he’s in his office.” Parrish studies Stiles, who shuffles awkwardly under the scrutiny, still smiling. “You okay, man? You’re sweating pretty bad.” 

Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes,  _ because he’s aware he’s sweating _ , and he doesn’t need any shit about it. He just wants to get this over with. He just wants to leave. 

 

“I’m fine, absolutely peachy, tip-top shape, thank you for your concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see my dad.” He snaps back, pushing past the deputy. 

 

When the door to his office opens, Stiles’ dad glances up, face lighting up when he realizes it’s Stiles, who doesn’t speak for almost a minute. As the seconds pass, the expression on the sheriff’s face shift - his jaw hardens and the rest of his face darkens in concern. He stands, making his way around the table toward Stiles, moving so fast Stiles backs himself against the door instinctively.  _ He’s your dad, dumbass, calm down.  _

 

“What’s wrong, son?”

 

(When did he become so damn easy to read?)

 

He huffs, “I’m fine.”

 

His father doesn’t say anything, just stands in silence, and Stiles knows he’s being examined for the millionth-time today. In turn, he walks around his dad, making his way to lean against the desk. He shoves his hand into his pockets, nimble fingers fiddling with the coin that always rests there, and shuffles his feet impatiently, waiting on his dad to speak first. And leaving? This wouldn’t be the first time. He’s gone often, keeping himself between saving the world and saving Beacon Hills. Then again, it’s never like this, with no real explanation, in the middle of the school years, with no real plans. 

 

But Percy had asked him to come home, so he’s going. 

 

He feels his dad’s gaze on him, staring, and tension grows around them. Stiles’ stomach knots up and he breathes fast.  _ Hera, just tell him.  _ He meets his father’s gaze, his own stare serious and unmoving. “I’m leaving.” 

 

“Leaving?” 

 

“For camp, within the next few minutes.” His dad’s mouth opens in protest, arms crossing in defiance, but Stiles cuts him off. “Percy called, dad. Rachel spit out a prophecy this morning, the next great prophecy, and some campers are starting to act weird. You know what that means, right? There’s something coming and I can’t - I can’t stay here and wait it out. You know I can’t. They need me, dad. I know you’re against the whole army-of-teenagers thing, but it’s what we do, it’s in our blood. It’s who we are. We save the world.” 

 

It sounds confident, more controlled than Stiles imagines it should. The words flow out, soft and smooth and powerful, and the warmth rushes through him. 

(Speeches come out easy sometimes, when the sun is positioned just right, as if his dad is helping him out, blessing him with the art of eloquent speaking.) 

 

Stiles clears his throat, “I came to tell you I was leaving, not to argue with you about it. I don’t want to do any more arguing today, so just accept it, please. I’ll be fine.  _ I’ll be safe, dad.  _ You know Percy will have my back, he’ll look out for me, and when we get this whole thing figured out, I’ll bring him to dinner, like you’ve been asking. Even if I have to drag him the whole way here. You don’t have to worry about me.” 

 

His dad huffs, jaw clenching and unclenching on and off, and Stiles knows he’s searching for a response, although it’s written plainly across his face, far too evident. Stiles holds his dad’s gaze for what seems like forever, refusing to break, to back down. He’s already said all he wants to say. 

 

After a long moment of silence, his dad sighs and a small, almost bittersweet smiles graces his lips. 

 

“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that? But I’m so proud of you.” His dad closes the space between them, pulling Stiles into a bone-crushing hug. “You come home to me, you hear? I can’t lose you. I love you too much to lose you, son.” 

 

“I exist only to be a pain in your ass, pops.”

 

His dad laughs and Stiles grins into his dad’s neck. “I love you, too. And I’ll be back before you know it.” As the words leave his mouth, he groans. He pulls away and frowns up at his dad’s confused look, the memory of leaving his friends standing in his driveway flashing through his head. 

 

“I mentioned the pack saw me leave, didn’t I? I kind of left them standing there, after I told them I might not make it back and we argued a bit. You’ll - uh, you’ll cover for me, right?” 

 

His dad scowls, “Might not make it back?” 

 

“I was riled up.” He pushes the thought aside and hugs his dad one more time. He pulls back, holding his dad at arm’s length. “You’ll look out for them, though? Keep them out of trouble?”

 

“Keep Scott McCall out of trouble?” 

 

Stiles grins, “You know I’m the one that drags them into trouble. It’s almost always my fault. So, with me gone, it should be an easy feat.” 

 

His dad raises a brow. “Is that a confession, Stiles?” 

 

In turn, Stiles shakes his head, letting go of his dad as he does so. He walks out and tries to ignore the nervousness at the back of his mind. His pack will be fine without him. 

 

(Or, at least Stiles hopes so.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for the angst of Stiles being seen as just '147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones' so I hope you do too. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles has the worst luck and friends who’d follow him anywhere.

Stiles swerves around the hydra, tires squealing on the blacktop. His jeep topples over and goes rolling into the woods, turning and turning, until it comes to a stop, throwing Stiles into his steering wheel. Pain sears through his chest and his vision blurs, sending everything out of focus. He gasps at the pain, breathing heavily, and reaches toward the wheel, grunting and pushing himself up. He pulls one hand away quickly, feels around his waist, and unbuckles his seat belt.

 

He goes crashing down onto his roof. He lets out a groan, eyes snapping shut as another wave of pain washes over him. 

 

As the seconds pass, ten and twenty and then thirty, the pain subsides, and Stiles’ vision clears. He shifts to the right, until he’s laying on his back, and kicks out his window. Glass goes all over the place. Stiles wiggles around until he is facing the window and crawls out on his hands and knees, moving carefully to avoid the shattered glass, cursing in every language he knows. 

 

_ It just had to be a fucking hydra.  _

 

And it’ll be on his way back any moment. 

 

Once he’s out, Stiles reaches back in and grabs his backpack, shoving anything extra he needs into it. He can come back for everything else some other time. If it doesn't get towed away first; maybe the mist will have his back just this once. He stands and brushes himself off, checking his pocket for his coin. After he’s sure it’s there, he slings his bag over his shoulder and examines the damage done to his jeep. 

 

It is terrible. 

 

The hood is smoking, his headlights are busted, and one of his tires is missing. He takes it all in, letting out a disbelieving scoff, his heart sinking in devastation. Roscoe is ruined. 

 

“Un-fucking-believable.” 

 

Stiles glances around, still muttering to himself, and getting a better understanding of his surroundings. Which is nothing but trees and small woodland creatures.  _ Great, awesome, just wonderful.  _ He squints in the direction he came from and catches sight of the small, crooked trail Roscoe had paved. 

 

As he hikes his back higher on his shoulder, a wave of heat washes over him, warming him to the core - the hydra’s still close by. The demigod huffs and takes off toward the trail. 

 

He makes it back to the highway in just under twenty minutes, but the moment he steps out of the tree line, his heart drops.

 

Because his pack is full of  _ idiots. _

 

Lydia’s car is parked on the side of the road, her and Malia sitting on the hood, talking to each other in hushed tones. Scott is leaning on the passenger door and staring off into the trees. He perks up when Stiles emerges, eyes lighting up in relief. 

 

Stiles’ face immediately darkens. “You followed me.” 

 

“We were worried about you.”

 

“That’s not a good enough excuse.” He scoffs, attempting to keep his voice steady and even. He shuts his eyes and breathes in. He wants to scream, wants to yell.  _ How could they be so stupid?  _ He rakes his hands through his hair, pulling at the ends. “Just go home. Please.” 

 

By now, Malia and Lydia have climbed off the hood and gathered around Scott. He watches as Malia’s mouth twists into a straight line. “You made it clear you weren’t going to tell us where you were going. What else were we supposed to do?” 

 

“You were supposed to trust me.”

 

His voice hits the wind dangerously, sharp in the small distance between him and his friends. He doesn’t mean for it sound as cold as it does, but he can’t help himself. His emotions are going haywire - he’s furious they had followed his this far, terrified because there’s a multi-headed monster on its way to tear him to shreds, and he’s full to the brim with guilt for causing them this much trouble. 

 

At his words, Lydia flinches. “Stiles, we trust you. We were just -” 

 

“Worried about me. Yeah, you said that already.” Stiles can't stop himself from speaking. It comes out harsh, detached, borderline cruel. But he needs to say it, and maybe it’s what they need to hear. He hears himself scoff. “I know you all think I need protecting, but I’m not helpless. I can take care of myself. And this? This is something I need to do on my own. I don’t need the three of you getting in my way, because you don’t know what you’re trying to involve yourselves in, and I sure as  _ Hades _ don’t need help.  _ Go home. _ ” 

 

Malia steps forward, until she’s in his face, her presence fiery and unyielding. She meets his gaze straight-on. “We’re not leaving.”

 

“Do you know who carries the guilt if you die?” Stiles growls back. “I do.”

 

At that, Scott reaches for Malia, pulling her back to him. She shoots the Alpha a confused look and he just shakes his head in return. She complies, moving back, arms crossing over her chest defiantly - but she isn’t done. As she steps back, Scott steps up. “What makes you so sure we’ll die?”

 

Stiles thinks of Erica. Of Boyd. He thinks of everyone who’s ever died because they couldn’t  save them, because  _ he _ couldn’t save them. “Someone always dies.” 

 

“That’s not true.” Scott pauses, then lets out a sigh. “You’re my best friend -  _ Stiles, you’re my brother _ \- and I’m worried about you. At least tell me what’s wrong.” 

 

“That opens up a problem all on it’s own.” 

 

“Stiles, please.” Compared to the anger in Malia’s voice, to the desperation in Scott’s, Lydia’s voice is almost soothing. Stiles sighs, all traces of his anger disappearing at the softness of her voice. He rubs his forehead, cursing to himself about how stubborn his friends are. He doesn’t know why he keeps trying; it doesn’t matter what he says. They won’t leave until they’ve gotten the answer they want, until they’ve gotten the truth. Stiles wonders if he should just tell them. Will it make leaving easier, if they know he’s more than capable of taking care of himself, if they know this isn’t the first time he’s put his life on the line. “Just tell us what’s wrong.” 

 

“No. You need to go home.” All three of them open their mouths to argue, but Stiles steps forward, cutting the three of them off. “You don’t get it, do you? This is so much bigger than anything you’ve ever faced and I’m standing here, telling you that there’s a good chance you’ll die, and you’re still so insistent on throwing your lives away. You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to follow me into this. In fact, I’m begging you not too, because if any of you die, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do. If you die, that’s on me. If you die, I’ll lose it. Please, please, go home.” 

 

Scott meets his gaze. “You don’t get to decide for us. If we want to follow you into this, we will. Because you’d do the same for us. You’d throw away your life in a second for us! You already have!” 

 

“And if I tell you that I’ve been lying to you my whole life? Would you still be willing to die for me?” 

 

“It won’t come to that.” Lydia - her voice soft and sweet against the wind, curls a deep red in the fading sunlight, green eyes staring into Stiles’ with such sincerity - takes his hand. “And we’d follow you anywhere, regardless.” 

 

Stiles feels a small burst of pride and he huffs in something like appreciation. Then, before he can stop himself, as if his mouth has a mind of its own, he speaks. “I’m a demigod. Half Noah-Stilinski and half sun-god. I’m so much more than all of you could have imagined.”

 

“Demigod?” Lydia’s mouth opens and closes a few times, not because she doesn’t believe gods and goddesses exist, Stiles knows, but because she’s having trouble grasping that he,  _ Stiles Stilinski,  _ is a demigod.

 

“Greek, to be exact.” Stiles answers, his mouth still running on its own accord. “Apollo fell in love with my dad one summer at this rock festival and then I showed up on my dad’s doorstep a few months later with a golden laurel wreath perched on my head. Claudia was confused, to say the least.”

 

Malia clears her throat. “I’m sorry, what?”

 

“And being a demigod is dangerous?” Scott asks, curiosity sparking in his eyes. 

 

“It’s not a good life. It’s brutal, dangerous. Most of us die before we reach twenty.” As he says this, Stiles finds himself looking at his feet. His throat feels constricted, like he’s about to choke, and he clears his throat. He glances up at them - staring at him with a mixture of wonder and disbelief and fury - and he takes a small step back. “I wanted to tell you, so many times, but just knowing could get you killed and I didn’t - I didn’t want that to happen. Not to you.” 

 

He’s met with silence and it’s silent far more longer than Stiles would have liked. 

 

Scott breaks the silence. “So you’re headed somewhere demigod related?” 

 

“I have a friend - Percy, he’s practically family - and he needs my help. I’m headed back to our camp. Demigods smell, we have stench. I’m sure you’ve noticed, Scott. But we attract monsters, and this camp is one of the only safe places for us. We train there, learn to defend ourselves, save the world. And, so I’m going to camp. Because they need me.” 

 

“And what does he need help with?” 

 

Stiles smiles in spite of himself, smiles at how terribly persistent they are. “You still can’t come with me.” 

 

“Why not?” Malia asks, staring at him with so much determination that he wants to melt underneath it. “We can help. We can do this together. Like you said, you’re not helpless and we aren’t either.” 

 

Stiles closes his eyes. He knows they don’t have to be looked after, protected.  _ But Allison didn’t need to be protected.  _ His fist clenches at his side, his nails digging into his palm.  _ Neither did Michael. Lee. Silena. Leo.  _ His eyes snap open. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

 

“Why not?” She repeats. 

 

“Stiles, we can’t let you do this on your own. We’re a team,  _ a pack.  _ We fight crime, remember? I’m Batman, you’re Robin.” Scott grins, reaching out to push Stiles’ shoulder playfully. His mouth dives off on it’s own tangent and Stiles finds himself answering. “I  _ specifically _ said I didn’t want to be Robin all the time.” 

 

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?” 

 

Stiles jaw juts out and he ignores the question, instead turning his back toward them. He surveys the tree line cautiously. He isn’t sure how long they’ve been talking, but he knows that if they stand around any longer, the hydra will find its way back to him. And he knows he  _ did not  _ want to be around when the monster shows back up. He turns back to his friends. “I haven’t decided just yet. But we should get on the road.” 

 

Lydia crosses her arms over her chest. “Not until we get a yes.” 

 

The moment the words leaves her mouth, a loud, scraping sound echoes from the woods. It’s metallic, like nails on a chalkboard, and it sends a chill through the air that makes Stiles shiver despite the warmth that suddenly surrounds them. He can hear the steady hissing. “Can’t get a yes if we’re all dead, Lyds.” 

 

“What is it?” 

 

Flames burst out of the forest, above their heads, but close enough that Stiles can feel the heat on his skin. Adrenaline overwhelms him and blood rushes in his ears, his natural defense system kicking itself into action. 

 

His hand slips into his pocket, tightening on the coin that always rests there, and finds himself grinning. 

 

“Multi-head monster with a taste for demigod flesh. Nothing too serious.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, is anyone surprised they followed him? Of course not, because it's Scott McCall, who dives headfirst into danger all the time. Why should this be any different? 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles defeats a hydra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this ins't the first time you've read this fic, I recommend re-reading the past four chapters because I've made a few changes. Most of them deal with past-to-present tense, but I've changed a few other things too. None of it alters the plot, but it does change the pace a little bit.

One of the hydra’s heads comes poking out of the tree line. The rest follow and Stiles does a quick head count.

 

He counts nine. The damn thing has _nine_ heads.

 

He yanks his coin out of his pocket, fingers trailing over the Pegasus symbol etched into the bronze, and tosses it into the air. It soars above his head, spinning and spinning and spinning, until a gleaming, double-edged sword forms. Stiles catches it in his left hand and holds it out in front of him, muscles adjusting to the familiar weight, the weapon an extension of his own arm.

 

A couple feet in front of Stiles, and for the smallest of moments, the hydra hesitates.

 

Before he can second guess himself, Stiles charges. Once he’s close enough, he dives face first under two of the hydra’s heads and goes sliding under the monster’s giant scaled belly. He comes up behind it and it’s tail whips against the ground. It moves quicker than Stiles expects, given its size, and spins toward Stiles, who glares at the monster, a menacing grin growing on his face. His sword glows faintly against the dark of the forest and he crouches down into a defensive position, taking a challenging step back, daring the hydra to follow him.

 

Stiles glances back at his friends near the road, all of them wide-eyed but determined. Scott and Malia have transformed, claws drawn, and noticing him looking, Lydia narrows her eyes, preparing herself for a fight. Stiles takes another slow step backwards.

 

At his movement, the hydra roars. It charges towards him, spit flying from multiple mouths.

 

(Stiles, because he has some smarts, runs.)

 

He crashes through the woods, the hydra snapping at his heels. He hoots enthusiastically as he runs, because it’s life or death, but man, does it feel like home -  his laughter provokes the beast, who snaps a head at Stiles’s heel once more.

 

(Stiles runs faster.)

 

The forest opens into a small clearing. Stiles huffs in excitement at the sight of it. It’s enclosed by a ring of trees and just wide enough for Stiles to work with it.

 

He turns to face the direction he came, digging his heels into the ground. The monster comes storming through the woods a moment later, seething with rage. Stiles narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on his sword.

 

The monster rushes at him with a blast of fire, and the middle head snaps at him. He lunges to the right and it misses him by seconds, so close Stiles can feel it’s breath on his skin. Now, the monster stands directly in front of him, growling.

He spots the pack coming out of the treeline, which draws the monster’s attention. Stiles shouts up it, “Yo, ugly! I’m right here!”

It turns to face Stiles once more. 

Stiles slashes at the monsters legs, opening small gash after gash, and the hydra roars in pain. It’s attacks grow more fierce, which leaves Stiles scrambling back into the treeline. He crouches down and rolls to the left, ducking and dodging all nine heads as they snarl at him.

 

(And boy, does that take some work.)

 

With each swing of his sword, the monsters movement’s slow. Stiles spins himself around a leg and takes the smallest opening to slash at the underside of one of the monster’s long necks. He sidesteps as the one head turns to him and he raises his swords, slicing the head off in one quick motion. Before the head can grow back, Stiles breathes deep and reaches his hand out. A brief, radiant feeling overwhelms him and a short, sharp burst of light emits from his hand and hits the stub, cauterizing the wound.

 

The warmth leaves as quick as it appears, and Stiles steps to the right as another head snaps at his feet - he hears the slight rasp of fabric ripping. His legs stings, but he ignores the pain and manages to slice two more heads off.

 

Each time, sunlight washes over him and light bursts from his fingertips.

 

Then, the monster claws at Stiles, scratching him just under his ribcage and he goes soaring into a tree. His back hits the trunk and more pain runs up his spine, and Stiles cries out. For the shortest of seconds, his vision goes black.

 

Seeing him in trouble, Scott and Malia rush forward from where they’ve been watching, claws drawn. He struggles up and fights down the worry crawling up his throat - their claws don’t break into the hydra’s skin. At least, not as well as his sword does. But it causes quite the distraction.

 

The hydra swats at them with it’s claws and snaps his remaining six heads as Scott and Malia run around it’s feet like Stiles had been. Both of them are fast, and the hydra can’t keep up. Malia comes up behind it and claws at it’s tail, which swings. She jumps and it misses her. It whips back around, knocking her down, and Malia shouts.

 

Scott is facing the monster head on, clawing at it’s necks. Still dazed, Stiles reaches out for his sword, except it’s not there.

 

He spots it across the clearing, glowing silver in the moonlight, right there at _Lydia’s feet._ Fear washes over him and he stands, newfound energy washing over him, and rushes toward her - but Lydia is faster than he is. She grabs the hilt in her hand and holds it confidently out in front of her, and Stiles’ heart beats faster in his chest.

 

Because she’s beautiful and brave and there’s a head poised low in the grass, slithering toward her feet. She spots it and raises Stiles’s sword high and swings downward with all her might, slicing the head off.

 

She steps back from the severed head, shouts Stiles’ name, and tosses his sword to him. He catches it, still running toward her. He reaches her just as the previously cut stub sprouts two more heads. The closest one snaps teasingly at Lydia’s leg, who stumbles backwards onto the ground. Stiles shouts, “Lydia, close your eyes!” and summons all of his strength. Once again, sunlight washes over him, warm and brazen and powerful. This time, he doesn’t let it go, and instead, it grows tangible and surrounds his sword, the brilliant stream of light embedding itself. He swings down and the regrown head slumps back onto the ground.

 

Stiles spins and hacks the second regrown head off. As it falls back to the grass, Scott shouts from the right, as a thin stream of acid-spit hits his right leg. Stiles tells Lydia to keep her eyes closed and runs to help Scott, who’s somehow pulled a head into a backwards chokehold, despite the smoke emitting from his leg. Stiles slices the head off and Scott falls onto the grass. Stiles helps him up.

 

“Don’t look at the light. It’s bright enough to blind you. Go check on Malia.”

 

He pushes all he has into his next few moves, attacking ferociously as the remaining four head’s snap at him; one of them snaps the bottom of his sweater, but misses his skin.

 

Sunlight still clings to his sword, refurbished with each swing Stiles makes. Stiles, who twists and turns and avoids getting a hand bit off as he removes the last four head’s from the monster’s body. As he slices down on the last head, the hydra fades to yellow dust, leaving Stiles covered in golden ash.

 

Stiles’ adrenaline vanishes with it and exhaustion washes over him. He falls down on all fours, the golden light dissipating from Stiles’ swords, and then there’s nothing but moonlight shining into the clearing. He breathes deep and stands back up, walking toward the pack, where Lydia and Scott crowd around Malia. She has a hand pressed to her temple and a sour expression on her face, so Stiles figures her injuries aren’t too bad. He limps over and slumps onto the ground next to them.

 

He scoots over to Malia, pulls her face into his hands, and checks her for a concussion. When he’s sure she hasn’t got one, he turns to Scott. “How’s your leg?”

 

Scott grunts, “Healing, but slower than usual.”

 

“To be expected.” Stiles replies. He examines his own injuries next. The gash on his rib is superficial and thin, but the bite mark on the back of his leg is deep and smoking. He shimmies his backpack off and digs through it for a small square of ambrosia. He tears off a piece and shoves it into his mouth, the sweet taste of strawberries and sour cherries warming him from the inside out. His pain eases, both of his cuts closing and scabbing over, and he lets out a content sigh.

 

Malia leans forward, “What’s that?”

 

Stiles smiles at her and wipes the crumbs from his hands, “Ambrosia. It’s the food of the gods. It helps heal demigods, but it’s deadly to mortals and other creatures. Even for us, if we eat too much.”

 

“What’s it taste like?” Her nose wrinkles in curiosity, examining the baggie Stiles sets down.

 

Stiles shifts, “It mimics the user’s favorite food. Mine is this french, kind-of-crusty cake my sister used to make. She was from this old french family, _real old_ , and she made it for every celebration we had at camp.”

 

“You have siblings?”

 

“I’ve got loads of siblings - Apollo gets around, for sure.” He pauses, lips pursing and pulling his gaze from Lydia’s, “But it’s not important. She died a while ago.”

 

Scott opens his mouth, but Stiles decides he doesn’t want to talk about it. He says, “Are you sure you still want to follow me? I can promise it’ll only get worse.”

 

Lydia, who’s still standing, pushes his shoulder with her knee, “Like I said earlier, we’ll follow you anywhere.”

 

(Stiles thinks this is the _dumbest_ thing Lydia has ever said, but he doesn’t say that.)

  
“We should make it to camp by noon tomorrow, then, if you’re serious.” When the three of them nod, Stiles sighs. “Of course you’re serious. Let’s go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


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